


A Mistake

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Explicit Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, but i kind of trample all over that so it's fine, established mary/john, major trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lost Sherlock once.  He won't let it happen again.  (Rated M for possible triggering behavior.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nighttime. Nighttime was supposed to be for sleeping, for winding down at the end of the day and recharging one's energy reserves. Nights were for sipping wine while watching the telly or reading a book by the fire or petting your lover's head while they slowly drifted to sleep in your arms. Nights were not supposed to be for chasing criminals through the streets of London, jumping between rooftops, sneaking in to locked buildings or private residences or the sodding tube system. Nighttime was for sleeping and daytime for activities. Nighttime was _not_ supposed to be John's favorite time of day.

And yet, ever since meeting Sherlock, John found himself craving the set of the sun, because with the absence of light came the detective in his element, and bringing John along for the ride. The doctor within him cried out in objection at the nocturnal lifestyle, pleading that it was not natural for humans to rise with the moon and fall with the sun, but he found this little voice easier and easier to ignore the more time he spent with his insane flatmate. Sherlock seemed to defy every law of nature, and John was oddly okay with this. His inhuman tendencies added to his air of mystery, his nature making him untouchable. And though he would never voice it - not even to himself - it fed John's craving for adventure.

Sherlock committed suicide in the daylight. Out of his element. True, it was an overcast day - as days in London usually are - but it was daytime. Sherlock fed off the energy of the city at night. In the daytime he was more vulnerable. More people questioning and doubting him. The papers that crucified his name were published in the early morning. Every dawn a new headline emerged to condemn him, spreading lies about who he was. John hated the daytime after Sherlock's death. It was part of what killed him, part of what took his magnificence from John and from the world. At night he was larger than life. In the daytime he was visibly just as human as everyone else.

After Sherlock's death, nighttime had to go back to being about relaxation. Boring. How could John relax knowing that out there, criminals were still evading the law, mysteries were waiting to be solved, and Sherlock lay buried six feed underground? The only force capable of catching them all in a single night, and he was gone. He mourned for the integrity of Scotland Yard now. At least with Sherlock around they got the credit and the public felt safe. At least with Sherlock around, someone was capable of doing something, was not afraid of the red tape and was only interested in solving the puzzle. Being morally apathetic was better than being a coward in the face of danger.

Nights with Mary were… an improvement. Not nearly as interesting as what nights used to be, but at least they weren't lonely on top of being boring. Mary was nice. Gentle. Kind. Beautiful. Everything Sherlock wasn't. Well, not entirely true. Sherlock was definitely beautiful. Anyone with functioning optic centers could see that. He wondered sometimes how much the detective was aware of this fact. He certainly used it to his advantage when the opportunity presented itself, particularly with Molly. And he'd seen Sherlock turn up the charm on a witness or two in order to get them to talk quickly. As soon as they disclosed what he needed to hear, though, he let it drop. Not interested. Never interested. But it was fine. John understood; nothing could get in the way of the work. Sherlock needed the work like John needed excitement. Both of them were slaves to the avoidance of boredom.

John planned to propose to Mary on a night out at one of her favorite restaurants. High end; waiters in tuxedos, that sort of thing. Fine dining had never been his favorite activity, but she enjoyed it, and he enjoyed seeing her smile. He said "planned" to propose to her because the proposal was interrupted by a waiter. Except it wasn't a waiter. It was Sherlock. Back from the dead - no, not _back_ from the dead. "Back" would imply he were ever dead at all. Never dead. Not dead. Did not lied to John for two years. _Lied._

John doesn't exactly remember how they ended up on the ground with Mary and a few waiters pulling him off his not-dead best friend, but he can infer. Deduce. He's not an idiot. By Sherlock's standards everyone was an idiot, but by _normal_ standards he was intelligent. He tackled Sherlock, grabbed him by the lapels of his sodding Spencer Hart jacket and throttled him. He remembers tackling him for the second time. He threw himself across the table and they ended up tipping backwards. And he remembers getting thrown out of the restaurant, but not before he landed a punch to Sherlock's lower lip. The third time there was no tackling, just a perfectly-targeted headbutt to his nose. Not hard enough to break, but enough to bruise and cause a serious nosebleed.

Then he ran.

He was introduced to Sherlock at midday. He met Sherlock in the evening. He started his life with the detective at night. He lost him in broad daylight, and regained him under mood lighting. What an interesting analogy for his fluctuating feelings for the impossible man.

Though he was loathe to admit it, he did miss living with Sherlock. He missed the man's erratic and unpredictable schedule, the violin-playing at two in the morning and the spontaneous decisions to drag John out for a case or just for a walk. _"You need to have a practical memory of the city as well as an internal map,"_ He'd say. Sometimes John wondered if this were just an excuse to get out and get some air but have company while he did it. John never minded. He liked the city, and Sherlock's London was an entirely different beast. Sherlock showed him such a different side of the city, both good and bad. London was a living, breathing creature to the detective, another puzzle to be solved, not simply a location in which the mysteries occurred. London was his territory, and he shared it with John. But when he left, that wonderment disappeared.

Without Sherlock, London was just another city.

So why did he still feel so empty at night? Sherlock was back, John was married to the most wonderful woman he'd ever met and was making a steady income for the first time since getting invalided; life was good - wasn't it? Despite having everything he'd ever asked for, including the most impossible one on that list, he still felt hollow when the sun went down. The moon mocked him, beckoned him with its enticing light and then laughed at him as he got into bed with his normal, lovely, domestic wife in his normal, lovely, domestic house and went to sleep right when he was supposed to.

Clockwork. His life had become clockwork. No spontaneity. No mystery. No violins at two in the morning.

His phone buzzed softly on the table. He forced himself to remain in place for a beat and reach for his phone like a normal person. He was _not_ over-eager for it to be Sherlock texting him with a new case. His heart lurched at the sight of the contact ID anyway. Sherlock wouldn't text him with small talk; definitely a case. He smiled and opened the message.

He felt his heart drop from his throat into his stomach. The room around him went dark and blurry at the edges; the phone was vibrating again. No, no that was his hands. Swallowing thickly, he grabbed his jacket and ran out the door, almost forgetting to call to Mary that he was heading out and taking their car.

He had never been more thankful for Mary's insistence that the two of them buy a car after their marriage. Cab drivers were obligated to go the speed limit. Maybe a few of them ignored the posted speed, but knowing his luck, he wouldn't have gotten one that was okay with pushing the limit. He could honestly care less about getting a speeding ticket right now. All he cared about were those seven words that had appeared on his screen, now singed into his occipital lobe like a brand.

_Made a mistake. Baker Street. Please hurry. SH_

There were two utterly terrifying details in that message. Firstly, Sherlock rarely made mistakes, and never openly admitted to having made one on the occasion he did. Secondly, he never, _ever_ said please, especially when he was rushing someone. Something was definitely wrong. The words remained burned in his retinas during his drive to Baker Street, breaking every speed limit on the way there. Worst-case scenarios danced around in his head like short films as he weaved in and out of the late night London traffic.

He pulled the car up to the curb in record time. Jumping out, he locked the doors without looking before bursting through the threshold of 221B without so much as a knock. Frankly he did not give a damn if he alarmed Mrs. Hudson on the ground flat. Not this time. The seventeen steps up to the second floor were a blur under his feet as he took them in twos. Door closed at the top of the stairs; mildly alarming. Grab handle and turn. _Please don't be dead. Not again. I just got you back._

The sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the couch flashed him back to his first night at Baker Street. Beckoned in a less urgent matter, the detective had been all long limbs and sinuous lines, ensconced in the expansive universe of his own thoughts. Pale even then, this time Sherlock looked worryingly pallid. John noted on a held breath that Sherlock wasn't just relaxed, he was limp; his long legs dangled over the far end of the couch, one arm across his thin torso, the other hanging off the edge, fingers grazing the wood floor.

John swallowed thickly and clenched his hand to keep it from shaking. "Sherlock?" He called tentatively. No response. Three long, careful strides and he was at the detective's side. "Sherlock?" He called again, and heard a little grumble in response. Dropping to his knees, John took Sherlock's wrist with the delicacy of the doctor he was and felt for his pulse. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He asked, slipping into his Doctor Watson tone.

"John," he heard Sherlock breathe. The weak and feeble sound pained him.

"Yeah, it's me," John reassured him. The relief of Sherlock's consciousness did not last long in the face of his pulse reading: forty-six beats a minute. Dangerously low. He cleared his throat to keep it from shaking when he next spoke. "Sherlock, what did you take?" The detective turned his head into the cushion, like a child hiding his face in shame. "I don't care what you've taken, just tell me so I can help you."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered meekly.

"I'm not angry with you," John said soothingly. It was true, for the most part. He wanted to be mad, but with Sherlock's pulse so dangerously low, he couldn't muster the anger. He was too genuinely scared. He released Sherlock's wrist to angle his face back towards him and check his eyes: bloodshot, pupils heavily constricted despite the low light. "Just tell me what you did so I can help you, Sherlock," John pleaded, already running through the symptoms in his head for a possible answer. The detective groaned, shifted away from his touch, but otherwise made no effort to respond.

John fished his phone out of his pocket. This got a turn of head from Sherlock. "What are you doing?" He asked.

"Calling an ambulance," John answered, "Your pulse is at forty-six and I'm not letting it get any lower."

"They won't let me enjoy it," The detective drawled.

"Yeah, well, the sooner you're done enjoying it the better," John held the phone to his ear, silently cursing them for letting the line ring more than once.

Sherlock was up and snatching the phone out of John's hand before he could react. The taller man ended the call before launching the phone across the room and laying back down. The exertion from that simple movement had fatigued him.

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

The taller man visibly cringed at the harsh sound, pulling his legs back and tucking in his knees. "I didn't mean to upset you," he whispered, voice terribly small. John's heart lurched. Seeing Sherlock this way was physically ailing. The hand at his side blindly felt through the air until it found John's hand. Long, cold fingers wrapped loosely around his own. John gave them a gentle squeeze.

"I'm not upset," John said, trying to keep his voice even, "I'm worried. You've clearly taken something and you're refusing to tell me what it is. I promise you I'm not angry Sherlock but I need to get you help. Please just tell me what you've done."

"…Heroin." The broken response was barely audible, but John still heard it, and it was enough to cause his throat to constrict. His heart felt heavy as it sank into his stomach again. He tried to echo the word for clarification, but no sound came out. No need; the physical symptoms all fit.

"I needed to stop thinking," Sherlock carried on in a distant, slow voice, "It was there. You weren't here to tell me not to. I needed to stop thinking. So much noise…"

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He'd never heard Sherlock object to thinking before. "What sort of noise?" He asked. If the insufferable idiot was going to object to going to a hospital, he needed to keep him awake at the very least. As long as he was talking, he was conscious. So they would sit and talk.

"You," the detective sounded on the verge of tears now, "All you. Your face in my head, your voice in my ears. Disappointed… Betrayed… I betrayed you, hurt you… Reminded me that I lost you to someone else. I hurt you and it cost me you… doing it again… God, sorry John… so sorry…"

John turned his head, weighed the words. Was it just the drugs talking? "Sherlock," he proceeded with caution, "You haven't lost me. I'm right here." He gave his friend's fingers another delicate squeeze to further prove it.

A single shake of his head. "Lost you," Sherlock repeated, voice trembling like a terrified child's, "My fault… hurting you now… you should go."

John exhaled. "I'm not going anywhere," he declared, "Someone needs to monitor your stubborn arse if you're not going to go to a hospital."

Sherlock finally turned his face towards John. Yes, definitely holding back tears, and somewhat failing. John had never seen him emoting so strongly. Crying did not sit well on the taller man's face. He wanted to reach out and wipe all his sorrows away, but there were no tears yet, just wet, red eyes. "I irritate you," Sherlock whispered breathily.

"In the way only friends do," John smiled, "The tolerable way."

Sherlock's brow knitted in confusion. He blinked heavily, as if against bright light, but the room was mainly lit by the street lamps outside the half-drawn curtains. "…tolerable irritation?"

"Sure," John said warmly, "I must irritate the hell out of you sometimes. When I'm being slow or nagging you to eat something."

"No," Sherlock lingered on the word a little, "Never grating. Sweet." He set his head down again, his eyelids drooping. "…'s charming, your slow… mind."

"Hey, eyes open," John couldn't keep the concern out of his voice as he reached for Sherlock's neck to take his pulse again. "Sherlock, look at me."

A pair of verdigris eyes found his own. "Always," he said, voice stronger than before. Still weak in comparison to his usual powerful baritone, but definitely more alert, like it was important John heard that. The hand wrapped around John's own separated then to rest on his cheek. John's eyes darted to it, but did not attempt to remove it. "Blue eyes," Sherlock mumbled, struggling to regain the same strength of voice.

"Hm?" John asked wordlessly.

"You," The detective continued, "Blue eyes. They… look brown in bright light… so dark. Have to… look close to see the colour." John didn't know how to respond to that. He was too focused on the shrinking pupils of his best friend; no bigger than pinheads now. He needed to do something.

"Sherlock," he started, not sure exactly what he intended to say afterward.

The taller man's eyes roamed his face. High as a kite and his gaze still felt impossibly sharp, John noted humorlessly. "Beautiful," Sherlock breathed. A thumb grazed John's cheek, like he was porcelain, made to be handled gently. John squinted and lifted his hand to cover Sherlock's with the intent of taking it away. Sherlock tensed his hand around John's cheek at the contact, establishing a grip. John was being pulled downward. He did not resist it. When his descent ended with his lips on the detective's, he still did not fight.

His first thought when Sherlock kissed him was how alarmingly soft the other man's lips were; softer than he had previously imagined. His second thought was how quite possibly insane this was, kissing his best friend when he was high and he himself married; was he even lucid enough for this to be considered consensual? His third, and the thought that quickly dominated his mind, was how much of an idiot he'd been not to see this. Not just an idiot by Sherlock's standards, but an idiot by every standard. His chest constricted with the weight of his guilt, his blindness, and he kissed back almost desperately. No tongue, just glorious slides of lips against lips, as he tried to express the apologies he knew he could never do justice with words alone.

Something damp tickled his cheek; he released Sherlock's hand on his face to wipe the tear away with his thumb, then shifted to cup Sherlock's face with both of his hands, drawing him closer. _Don't cry, Sherlock,_ he thought, and tried to convey with each resealing of their mouths, _Please don't cry, Sherlock. I'm here. God, I've always been here. Please don't cry. I never meant to hurt you. I'm so sorry._

"John," Sherlock finally whispered against his mouth when they parted for air. He hummed in attention. "…Call an ambulance."

John jumped back in alarm. Jesus, what the hell was he doing? He should have chased after his phone the moment Sherlock tossed it away. Sherlock needed an ambulance ten minutes ago. He looked back over at his friend and felt his muscles all turn stiff. The detective's eyes had glossed over.

"…I think I overdosed."

[xxx]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave any comments or constructive criticism. I may continue this depending on how many people like it. Thanks so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, god," John whispered in horror, and ran to retrieve his phone. His hands shook as he dialed emergency. "Hello, yes, I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street immediately. My friend has overdosed on heroin. He's semiconscious, BPM at forty-six, blood pressure indeterminable but low. I don't know how long ago he used but he's barely conscious. Yes, I can stay on the line." He strode back to Sherlock's side and took his hand again. "Sherlock, hey, you still with me?"

"I'm sorry…" he breathed.

"It's alright," John cooed, "Just stay with me, alright? Help's on the way."

"Never meant to-"

"I know," John refused to let him finish that sentence, like famous last words. "Just stay awake for me, yeah? They'll be here soon. Keep talking to me."

"Tired," Sherlock breathed.

"Stay awake," John ordered softly.

"Hypocrite," Sherlock grumbled, "You're always telling me to sleep. Want to sleep now."

John's lips twitched in a smile. Snark meant brain damage was unlikely. "Stay awake with me," he tried coercion. It would never work on a lucid Sherlock, but then, he was far from lucid. "Just stay awake with me a while longer. Please."

Sherlock fought with his heavy eyelids to look at John. "You… distraught," he drawled. "'M fine, John."

John's breath caught in his throat. He gave Sherlock's hand another encouraging squeeze. "You're bloody well not fine, Sherlock. Just stay awake. You're not allowed to die on me, you hear me? Once was enough." Shit. Those thoughts were supposed to remain in his head. He hoped, suddenly, that Sherlock wouldn't remember this after he leveled out.

Finally, he heard sirens, and soon after, the heavy footfalls of work boots. With a sigh of relief, he ended the call so he could focus on helping the first responders. Two men emerged from the threshold behind them, carrying a stretcher and an oxygen mask. John helped them lift Sherlock onto the stretcher, something he knew was unnecessary given how damned thin he was. He felt protective nonetheless. As they lifted the stretcher, Sherlock became suddenly frantic.

"John," he attempted to pull the oxygen mask off his face. John stepped into his line of sight.

"I'm right here," he said, "I'm coming with you." He turned to one of the first responders, who nodded in silent approval. It hadn't really been a question. He imagined based on the sight as they walked in - one of John's hands on Sherlock's face and the other grasping his fingers - that they assumed him to be Sherlock's boyfriend. For once in his life, he did not mind the assumption. He just hoped they paid no mind to his wedding band. That might raise some unwanted questions in the waiting room.

John clambered in to the back of the ambulance after Sherlock. Once the doors were shut, the vehicle took off for St. Bartholomew's hospital. Just seeing the medics attach fluids to him was a relieving sight. There was not much they could do from here, but anything they could do to keep his heart rate up would reassure John. One of the medics, a short man with sandy blonde hair, was attempting to get Sherlock's attention.

"Insufferable," Sherlock mumbled from behind the oxygen mask.

John chuckled, which caused the medic to look up. "That sounds about right," John explained, "You'll not get much out of him. He's always like that."

"I just need to know if your boyfriend has any allergies to any types of medications or has any prior medical conditions that we should know before we have time to look up his records," the medic said, fidgeting a little.

"No to both," John offered, letting the boyfriend comment slide. The medic smiled and made a note of it on his tablet.

"Chest hurts," Sherlock gasped.

"They just gave you a shot of adrenaline," John explained, watching as the other medic, a middle-aged man with graying brown hair, retracted the syringe. "You might feel a bit odd. How long's it been since you last ate?"

Sherlock met his eyes for a moment before closing them. "'M sorry."

John smiled weakly. "Doesn't answer my question."

"Thursday, I think." Both medics looked at John. He cringed; it was Saturday.

Sherlock's hand reached up towards John; he took it without hesitating. "Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.

"Bart's," John reminded him, "Hush now, you're supposed to be breathing, not talking." Sherlock reached for the mask with his other hand, which John swatted away. "Don't you even think about taking that off."

"They called me your boyfriend," Sherlock just kept on through the mask.

"Yes," John tried to disguise the panic in his voice as concern, "I know you're not a fan of the term but we can argue over the logistics later, okay?"

Sherlock was blessedly silent for another minute or two. John just focused on listening to the slightly-raspy quality of his breathing, thankful he was able to breathe a little deeper after the adrenaline. "Is that what I am to you?" Sherlock finally said as they pulled up to the ambulance station at St. Bartholomew's.

"You bet your arse that's what you are," John said as the medics flung the doors of the vehicle open. They wheeled Sherlock out and John ran with them inside, still clutching Sherlock's hand, until finally they had to separate while they rushed Sherlock to a room to be stabilized.

In the waiting room, John's hands shook as he held his slumped head with them. He knew he should call Mary, let her know that Sherlock was in hospital, but in truth he couldn't bear to just yet. He did shoot her a quick text to reassure her that he was alright but that he would not be coming home tonight. If the buzzing of his phone a minute later was her, he did not bother to check it. His wedding band soon accompanied his phone in his pocket, though; best to keep up the boyfriend ruse if it meant he would be able to see Sherlock as soon as they stabilized him.

 _If they stabilize him._ John shook his head furiously to remove that painful thought from his mind. Of course they would stabilize him. He would not think about the possibility of Sherlock dying due to something as mundane as a drug overdose. Sherlock wouldn't let that happen; he'd stubborn his way back to life because that cause of death would bore him out of his wits. No, the doctors here knew how to do their jobs. He would be alright. And then they would have a talk about this whole situation. Because if what Sherlock said was the truth, if he had used because John had not been there, then John was partly to blame for him being in hospital at all. And that thought alone would be enough to keep the doctor awake as long as it took for someone to come and fetch him.

[xxx]

The soldier was nothing if not patient. He sat in the waiting room watching the minute hand make its circuit around the numbers until he eventually lost count. He got up to exercise his leg when the dull throb he had come to associate with stress returned, knowing it to be futile, as the pain was not real. The temptation to get a cup of coffee struck him more than once, but he did not see the point. He would not need the caffeine to stay awake; he was much too wired to fall asleep. The muted TV in the corner was displaying some news station or another, but no news mattered to him right now except updates on Sherlock's status, and as he was not a doctor in this hospital, he could not simply go and inquire. He had to wait. So he waited.

A tall, distinguished man with short, brunette hair and wearing a lab coat emerged from the doors that led to the ICU. He carried a clipboard in his hands and news on his face. No tension in his strides so he was not building up to delivering bad news. John's lips twitched in the faint hint of a smile at the realization of just how much Sherlock's observational skills had rubbed off on him. The man was also walking straight towards him.

"John?" The doctor asked.

"Yes," John nodded, and stood up. This doctor was a full head taller than him, but John did not feel small in his presence; he was rather used to people towering over him. That never stopped him from being able to make them cower in a corner when he rose his voice.

"You're Sherlock Holmes's partner, correct?" The doctor inquired.

"Yes," John swallowed nervously, "How is he?"

"We've stabilized him," the doctor reassured him. John refused to sink to his knees with the weight of his gratitude. "He's still asleep, but you're welcome to go in and see him if you like."

John nodded his thanks, but did not move. "How much did he take?" He asked. "How much was in his system? I'm a doctor, you can give me the figures."

The doctor picked at his fingernails uncomfortably, and shifted his weight. "If you're a doctor then I'll spare you the figures," he said sympathetically. "Honestly, it's a bloody miracle he recovered. The fact that anyone without a dependency could handle a dosage like that is beyond me. I've never seen it before. I don't mean to scare you, but it's a good thing you called emergency services when you did. He's alright now. He may need to remain here tomorrow night as well, but he should be cleared by Monday morning. If you can convince him to stay here that would be for the best."

"I'll strap him down if I have to," John offered a smile he knew would look half-empty, and made for the room number the doctor supplied him with.

Sherlock Holmes in a hospital bed was an eerie, chilling sight. The man John had known for so long to be an indestructible, untouchable force looked so frail and vulnerable in this state. John felt ill. But he fought it down to remain at his friend's sleeping side. The ECG monitor beeped along with the electrical readings of Sherlock's heart at a pleasant sixty-seven beats per minute; a good pace for slumber, and a relief for the army doctor after feeling it at a meek forty-six not a few hours ago. He pushed the recliner in the corner closer to the bed so he could sit where Sherlock would see him upon waking. He glanced over at the fluid drip; the IV in Sherlock's wrist appeared to be drinking heartily as well. At least his body was taking to the treatments. Perhaps his transport was even a little grateful for the proper care for once. John's eyes welled up at the thought.

 _If I'd known,_ he thought, _maybe I could have been there to take better care of this body for him._ Maybe he could have done a lot of things had he used better insight regarding the detective's mind. There was no telling exactly what they could have been had Sherlock not kept silent about a few choice details. Then again, there was no telling exactly how John would have reacted in less dire circumstances. Would he have rejected Sherlock had he admitted to romantic feelings? Every instance in which he emphasized _"I'm not his date," "We're not a couple," "I'm not gay,"_ buzzed in his skull, tugged at his heart. What that must have felt like for Sherlock to hear every time the most innocent accusation was made regarding their unusual relationship.

It was Irene Adler who first laid it out so bluntly for him. Many others had insinuated that he and Sherlock were dating and he had blown them off, even gotten a little irritated at them. He never thought himself to be particularly homophobic but he supposed there was something to be said about someone getting angry at being assumed to be gay. Maybe he had more internalized problems with it than he realized. But then Irene Adler had said it to him very simply and in a way with which he could not argue. Maybe they didn't hold hands and kiss and go to bed together and have sex with one another, but they were a couple. Their behavior, their mutual comfort levels, and their mental space was that of a couple. They were a set pair, completely synchronized; where Sherlock went John followed and vise versa (unless John specifically requested some space). And after she pointed that out, well, he'd stopped being so adverse to it. It helped him, in a lot of ways. Sherlock was simply the most interesting person he'd ever met, and no girlfriends he could ever meet would be able to hold a candle to him, be able to hold his interest the way the detective could. So he stopped dating, stopped looking for serious relationships like that, and he had actually been a lot happier. He could focus on his life with Sherlock, on the work and the people he was saving (because someone's motivation had to be about the greater good).

But then he'd lost Sherlock, and he'd been forced to move on, something he had not prepared himself for. Sherlock was an untouchable force, an immortal entity. As a doctor and a soldier he should have known how naive such sentiments were. The eventuality of death is the only certainty in life. Sherlock's ability to operate on a level far above the average human being made him forget that, and what a near-fatal mistake it had been for him. Months of isolation. Months of grieving. Moving on had been hollow, half-hearted, but the longer he clung to the life Sherlock gave him in wake of the detective's suicide the more pain he found himself in.

So the next time he found someone, he made sure to look for something long-term. And he'd found that in Mary. Dependable, trustworthy, sane, stable Mary. Sherlock didn't blame him for seeking new companionship when he returned. He and Mary actually got along remarkably well. Was that just a front to keep John happy?

He didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. His whole perception of his friend's brilliant mind had been turned upside down. Every word he'd ever exchanged with him he was now turning over and over in his head looking for ambiguity and hidden double-meanings. How many he was finding was alarming. God, how could he have been so stupid as to not see Sherlock's true feelings for him? He was supposed to be the expert on people in their relationship, and he had failed to see the repressed humanity of the most important person in his life. Sherlock hid from him to keep John happy. What sort of shit friend did that make John?

A nurse came in the room, shattering his thoughts. She jumped in alarm at his presence. "Sir," She said, clearly spooked, "You can't be in here. Visiting hours end at eight o'clock. It's near three in the morning."

John frowned. "His doctor gave me permission to see him." He got to his feet and paced to the foot of Sherlock's bed so he would not be in her way.

Her eyes brightened, and a smile crept on her face. "Doctor Trevor?"

"Um…" John realized with a stroke of embarrassment he hadn't even thought to get the name of Sherlock's attending.

"Tall, short brown hair, male model type?" She supplied.

John chuckled once. He supposed the man was rather good-looking. "That's the one."

She beamed, and went to work on the monitors, checking Sherlock's outputs and replacing the near-empty scalene drip with a fresh one. "Oh, yeah that's him," she giggled with no shortage of non-professional affection, "Always breaking the rules. He's a sap for those big Hollywood moments, you know? The ones where the patient's love is there waiting for them when they first wake up. Doesn't matter if it could get him in real trouble in real life." She looked back at him then. "You're his boyfriend, then, I take it?"

"Yes," How easy that was to say was something he'd have to analyze later.

She grinned, and when she looked at Sherlock, grinned even wider. "Well, he's quite a catch, I'll give you that."

"You should see his smile." What in God's name did he just say.

"I look forward to the chance," She shot him another smile, lined with sympathy. "Look, I don't usually approve of Doctor Trevor's schemes just because it can cost me my job too, but as long as you don't go shouting it in the streets, you're welcome to stay. I can fetch you a blanket if you like."

"That's very kind of you," he smiled and shifted his weight between his feet, "But I'm alright. I just want to keep an eye on him."

"Are you the one that found him?" She shook her head suddenly. "Sorry, sorry, not my place to ask. I'm all done so I'll leave you two alone. Have a good night. Press the call button if you need one of us."

"Thank you," John sat back down after she took her leave. Truthfully, he was thankful she caught herself. He wasn't quite ready to be going back to the moment he saw Sherlock on the couch, with something very visibly wrong with him. Pale skin glistening at the throat with what may have been a cold sweat, veins more visible than they had any right to be, breathing slowed, pulse weak…

He shook his head to snap himself out of it. Not now. No point dwelling on that fear anymore. He took Sherlock's hand, like he had so many times before, a sign of his unwavering trust. He trusted Sherlock with his life, and Sherlock trusted John with his. He brushed the top of Sherlock's hand with his thumb.

What he had never told the detective, what he probably should have re-emphasized to him after his return, was that he trusted Sherlock with his heart as well. He had broken it, lied to it, and then expected it to be all fine when he waltzed back to John large as bloody life, but - well, that was the thing, wasn't it? Sherlock _was_ larger than bloody life. It had taken all of a few days for John to forgive him. And Sherlock was making a notable effort ever since to repair the damage he'd done. In all that time, though, John had never really lost any fondness for him, he was just more careful with his footwork around the man that had lied to him for two years.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand then. "I do trust you," he whispered to the sleeping detective, "I trust you with everything that I am. You can trust me, too." _With your heart._ The thoughts wouldn't form themselves on his tongue. _You can trust me with your heart, Sherlock. I know so many others have hurt it but I promise I never will._ "I promise I'll never hurt you. Just come back. Just wake up you git so I can slap some bloody sense into you." His voice broke several times during that last sentence, but he didn't care. No one was around to hear him so distraught.

"You're the most idiotic genius I've ever met," He said fondly, "Of course you can trust me with that." His eyes welled up again. "If not me, then who?"

Sherlock's chest heaved with a deep sigh. John wished he had a stethoscope so he could listen to his lungs, but he settled for a hand on his bare chest. They felt alright as he exhaled; slightly shaky with the effort, but that was no surprise. It would take at least forty-eight hours for Sherlock to be back to his full strength after he woke up.

His hand twitched around John's then. John smiled. Sherlock had always been a light sleeper. Right now his sleep was partially drug-induced, but that wouldn't stop his sharp senses from detecting another presence. And who else would honestly take his hand at his bedside in hospital? The thought of Mycroft attempting made him snort. That just wasn't their relationship.

"Yeah, it's me," He said fondly, and gave Sherlock's hand another squeeze. "I'm still here. God, I've always been here, Sherlock."

A momentary spike in Sherlock's BPM sounded from behind him, but then it settled again, more relaxed than before. Nothing alarming. It was fine, it was all fine.

[xxx]

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as impressed with this chapter as I am with the first one, so expect it to undergo some changes. But for now I wanted to post it because it's finished and proofread so why not. There will definitely be one more chapter after this because I - like Doctor Trevor - am a sucker for those confrontation scenes and love making Sherlock and John talk about their feelings. (If you don't believe me go read my other Johnlock fic.) After that I'm not sure. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Until next time, lovelies.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock first awoke, he looked confused, a rare expression for him. John didn't think it sat well on his features, normally all-knowing in their vanity. But then the fleeting look was gone, and the first words out of his lips to John were that he wanted to be discharged. John looked at him sideways before saying that the doctors had not yet given him clearance. When Doctor Trevor finally came in to see him, he was pleased that Sherlock was finally awake. The pleasure didn't last long, as Sherlock quickly spelled out his failing marriage and soon-to-be estrangement from his son that he was not spending enough time with because he volunteered extra time at the hospital. Off-put and caught off guard, Dr. Trevor had left the room without much of an examination of Sherlock's condition. Sherlock barely flinched, only tore off the sensors on his chest and asked John where his clothes were.

John, a little more used to Sherlock's blunt methods of deduction, was less phased by his tactics. He refused to let Sherlock discharge himself until he, at the very least, was satisfied that Sherlock was well enough to go home. Begrudgingly, Sherlock sat back down on his bed and waited for John to examine him. Feeling satisfied, John allowed him to get dressed and discharge himself from the hospital. They hailed a cab and went home to Baker Street.

When Sherlock took the stairs up and entered through the door into the kitchen and not the living room, John knew that was signaling a shut-in to his room whereupon he would not emerge for days. He tried to run past him to block his way but the lanky git was behind his door in three strides and locking it closed behind him before John had the chance.

"Sherlock," He called, "Sherlock, can we not do this, this time? Please?" He heard the muffled sounds of a body clambering atop a mattress. "Sherlock, please, can we talk? I think we should talk about this." No response. John shifted his weight nervously from side to side, his left hand beginning to tremble. He stood outside the door for another minute with nothing but silence echoing between them. Finally, he sighed. "Alright. I'll leave you alone. Call me if you need anything. But Sherlock, please don't shut me out, alright? I'm not angry. I'm really not. I just want to help you." As he was walking away, he decided to call one last thing over his shoulder.

"Please don't push me away."

On the other side of that door, once John was safely outside and hailing a cab to return to his wife and domestic bliss, a single tear escaped the consulting detective's eyes before he locked himself in his mind palace with no desire to ever re-emerge.

[xxx]

The sound of a rectangle no bigger than a deck of cards vibrating against a wood table had no right to sound as menacing or annoying as it did. John grabbed his phone of the nightstand with a groan, and added another when the glaring read face of the clock told him the hour. When he glanced at the display, all inhibition disappeared. He shot up in bed, silently thankful that Mary wasn't resting on his chest anymore but facing the wall, as the action would have woken her up. The short message on his screen made his blood run cold.

_Baker Street. Please Come. SH_

It was alarmingly similar to a text he'd received only a few nights ago and not a night he wanted to ever live again. He threw on some clothes quickly and rushed out the door without even a word to Mary. No need to wake her and make her worry any more. He'd eventually told her that Sherlock had been in hospital, though left out exactly why. It was enough on its own to make her worried.

Once again he arrived at Baker Street in record time. He entered the building with a little more care than last time though, not wanting to rouse Mrs. Hudson at such an inhumane hour. He ascended the first flight of stairs quietly before bounding up the second and bursting into the flat.

"Sherlock?" He called, failing at keeping the concern from his voice.

"Bedroom," Came the response, almost inaudible from John's position. Turning on his heels, John made for the detective's bedroom. The door was still shut, so he gave a warning knock before entering.

"Sherlock?" He called again, quieter this time. The detective was laying on his bed in his pajamas, body over the blankets and legs crossed at the ankles, fingers steepled under his chin in his signature thinking pose. John was unaccustomed to seeing him in his pajamas without a dressing gown flowing around him, but they were all hung neatly in the open wardrobe, along with his Spencer Hart jackets and dress clothes. "You okay?" He finally asked when no sound came from the detective.

Still no response. John clenched and unclenched his left fist to keep it from shaking. "Sherlock? You texted me at half four in the morning to please come, I'm assuming it's important. Are you alright?" He saw the detective's jaw clench, saw him swallow, but still no response. Doctor Watson emerged then. He stepped over to the edge of the bed and reached for one of Sherlock's frail wrists to take his pulse. "Sherlock, answer me: did you use again?"

"No," came the stern response. His pulse rate, however, suggested otherwise: one hundred and fourteen beats per minute; elevated, but not verging on dangerous yet.

"Your pulse is high," John commented. Sherlock yanked the offending wrist away.

"Sherlock, we've been through this before; whatever you took, I won't be angry. Just let me get you help before your pulse gets any higher."

"It ever occur to you, _doctor,_ that my pulse rate is high because of nerves, and not a stimulant?"

The word 'doctor' was sneered with such contempt that John was genuinely offended for a moment. But he put his phone back in his pocket after a beat. "Why are you nervous?" He asked cautiously.

"Trying to formulate the proper way to communicate my thoughts."

John couldn't help the half smile that tugged at his lips. "You? Thinking before you speak? Well, this will definitely be worth the wait." He made to go grab the chair by the wardrobe, but a hand caught his wrist before he could take a step towards it. When he looked down at Sherlock, he appeared to not have moved at all; his eyes were still closed and his left hand was still perched against his face, but the right had closed in a death grip around John's carpals. "I'm just pulling up a chair," John explained.

"Stay," was Sherlock's retort. Grudgingly, John opted to sit on the side of the bed instead. The hand that had caught him returned to its place resting gently against its twin.

"You called me here to watch you think?" John asked after he watched the clock on the nightstand change three times. He kept his tone light and friendly, but inwardly he was shifty, nervous, and just a little annoyed.

Sherlock's chest heaved in a disgruntled sigh. "I called you here because I assumed I knew what to say. But as soon as I heard you on the steps the words failed me. I do not think this is something I should simply say without premeditation. I'm assuming one miscalculated inflection could cause a severe misinterpretation on your part and result in you either committing me to some god-awful rehabilitation program or walking out that door and never returning. I'm having difficulty deciding which situation sounds worse."

"We don't have to talk about the drugs right now, if you're that worried about it," John offered, "Honestly as long as you let me scour this place for the rest of your stash I'll be okay with putting off the conversation until you're ready for it." John knew, perhaps better than anyone, that Sherlock was not comfortable with conversations that weren't about murder. Talking about himself and his own demons was especially difficult for the detective. He preferred to operate under the assumption that he did not have any because he did not feel. John was not about to force him to talk about something that was clearly difficult for him.

"What I used was the last of it," Sherlock said flatly.

"Mind if I double check that?" John inquired. No response came. John cocked a smile. "Yeah you know I'm going to anyway so there's no point in asking. But if we're agreeing to let that one alone for now, mind if we talk about something different? Just while I'm here."

"And what would you like to talk about?" Sherlock asked with feigned disinterest.

"You kissed me when you were high," John stated calmly. He saw every muscle in Sherlock's body tense. "I'd like to know where that came from."

"I don't even recall it."

"Yes you do," John prodded, "What else could this sulk be about?" Pulling his knees up, Sherlock suddenly turned away from John on the bed to face the wall. "Hey, did I say I was cross? Did I say this ends our friendship or that I was disgusted?"

"You implied it," Sherlock grumbled.

"When did I do that?"

Sherlock's knees drew up further. His spine went rigid. "'I'm not his date,'" He started quoting, and then did not stop, "'I'm not gay,' 'we're not a couple,' 'I am not gay,' 'Greg, for the last time, we're not dating.'" The next time he spoke, his shoulders slumped with the words, and his voice sounded terribly defeated. _"'You machine.'"_

John winced at the last bitter reminder of his own disregard for Sherlock's feelings. "Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did. You've made your opinion on the matter quite clear, John. You would never consider a relationship with a man because you are very confidently heterosexual. You have never and will never return my sentiments because I live a life routed in cold hard fact, dismissive of all that is emotional and feeling because it serves me no merit. I apologize for putting you in a situation where your heterosexual lifestyle was marginally compromised but rest assured you may delete the action from your memory for I expect nothing to ever come of it. I'm currently trying to do the same."

"Sherlock," John gasped, bewildered. "Hold on, is that honestly what you think? How... How can you think that I think so little of you? Do you honestly believe I see you as some unfeeling, soulless bastard? What I said to you in Bart's lab was one of the biggest mistakes of my life and that statement haunted me every day after you left because I thought that those were the last words that I ever said to you face to face but Sherlock, you of all people must know that that's not how I really feel. How could you even-"

"Why did you marry her?" Sherlock shouted, and sat up in a flash, sliding off the bed and screaming at John from the other side with a grace John could only envy. "I left for two years _for you_ and came back only to discover that you had thrown in your lot with some woman whom you barely know and were striving for some sort of normal life? Honestly, John? A house in the suburbs and a spring wedding and a chapel and monthly get-togethers with friends? What's next? Joining the neighbourhood watch? _None_ of this suits you!"

John just stared at him, then considered and filtered his words carefully. "…What do you mean you left for two years for me?" He asked calmly. It was difficult, but he knew he needed to keep a check on his anger. A hysterical Sherlock was only dismissive of anger, and if this turned into a shouting competition, he would lose; Sherlock always knew where to best strike if he felt threatened. It was better to just let him have it out than challenge him.

Sherlock actually made an "argh!" noise as he grabbed at his curls. But then he sat down on the bed again, his back to John, and the fight just left his form. His arms drooped, still attached to his head by his hands, his shoulders sagging and his head hanging. "Just go, John." He sounded utterly defeated as his hands dropped to his lap.

"No," John said firmly, and stood to walk around the bed to kneel in front of his friend. "Sherlock, no. Not this time. This time you're going to tell me what the hell you were doing for two years. This time we're going to _talk_ about this like the mature adults we've somehow convinced the rest of the world we are. You and me, right now. If this conversation lasts into the morning I'll call in sick to work, I don't care. This: you and me, this is more important to me. _You_ are more important to me, Sherlock. I care about you and right now I'm concerned about you. So we're going to talk and you're going to get this weight off your chest and let go of whatever's making you so upset."

When Sherlock looked up from underneath his wild curls, his eyes were red and glossy. He was fighting tears. John offered him an encouraging smile, and sat down on the bed beside him. "Now tell me from the beginning, when you first went up to the roof. I cut you off last time."

So Sherlock did. He explained every last detail, all thirteen escape possibilities, which John sat through patiently because he recognized that Sherlock was most comfortable with logistics. He explained Moriarty's game, the suicide, the three snipers fixed on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He explained how he did it, and he confessed that his reasons for keeping his survival a secret were not because he did not trust John to keep it, but because he feared John would try to find him. It was safer for John to remain behind in London because where Sherlock was going would most certainly get him killed in his narrow sighted craving for danger. Sherlock couldn't risk John jumping into the fray without proper intel, and tearing down Moriarty's network was going to be a delicate situation. So he faked his death to get ahead of the network and to keep John safe.

He explained the hardships of living on the run for two years, the plans that were executed perfectly and the plans that had a hitch or two. He explained the scars and bruises that John had caught glimpses of on his back when he was changing on a few occasions: kidnappings that led to torture; some of them all part of the plan, some of them not. He explained how it had been the promise of eventually returning to London and to John that kept him going. And he explained his heartbreak upon returning only to discover that John was engaged. That he'd been tossed out onto the street and been expected to just accept that everyone in his life had moved on, how it had really just made him feel expendable. But he had put it all behind him, kept it locked deep down inside, because he was truly happy for John despite his earlier protest, and because that wasn't who he was. He did not get involved with other people's personal lives. But it hurt to see John with someone else and he couldn't explain why. Through most of this, his eyes never met John's.

John was patient with the whole explanation, only offering a few necessary sounds of acknowledgement when appropriate to inform Sherlock that he was listening. When the conversation carried on into the daylight, he called in sick to work just as he promised he would, and left Mary a quick message on her phone telling her that he was sorry but he'd taken the car and she could use the money in his wallet that he'd left behind to get a cab. He knew that would warrant a sit-down talk later, but he refused to think about that right now.

Internally, he was practically screaming. All of this time, nearly every decision Sherlock had made was all for him, to keep him safe and to keep him happy, and he'd acted like the biggest cock in the face of it. Sherlock had been hurting, had been miserable, and he hadn't even seen it. He was supposed to be able to see through Sherlock's barriers the way Sherlock was able to read a corpse. He had even quoted John as being able to read a human being the way Sherlock could read a crime scene, but how good could he really be with people if he hadn't been able to see that the one person that mattered the most to him on this Earth was hurting? And all because of him?

"So," John finally said when Sherlock's stream of consciousness broke, "So, the other night, when you relapsed, that… Was that because of me?" Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. "When you were high, you said that you couldn't get my voice out of your head. That my voice kept reminding you that you'd lost me to someone else. Is it…" He swallowed thickly, "…Is all this my fault?"

"No," Sherlock said with resolve.

"Sherlock," John pushed, "Did you or did you not overdose because I've been a shit friend lately?"

"It was my decision. My poor judgement. Not yours."

"Yeah and I'm sure that's the exact kind of bullshit that your brother fed you when you were younger too, that everything wrong with you is your fault, right?"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock snapped, meeting his eyes.

"No," John said with just as much resolve as Sherlock had previously. Sherlock's lips parted, like he was going to make a snappy retort, but they closed again, and he looked away.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," John said, "And I'm sorry that I made you think you could never tell me the truth. Sherlock I am so genuinely sorry about the way I behaved and the way I was so dismissive of your feelings. I'm not saying that heroin is a reasonable way to deal with those feelings but I'm saying that you have to deal with it alone, either. This, what you're feeling, is not your fault."

"I can't make it stop," Sherlock whispered brokenly.

"Make what stop?" John asked soothingly.

"These feelings… For you, I mean," the detective clarified. "I've tried. They're very persistent. Purging my emotions had never been difficult until I met you."

John smiled and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "They don't have to be a bad thing."

"Too little, too late. They're useless now."

"And why is that?"

"Because I didn't get to you in time. I lost, John."

"Did you?"

Sherlock looked up then, and was met with John's beaming smile. The hand on his shoulder moved to cup his face. Sherlock's eyes darted to it in alarm, then back to John's face to hold his gaze. Slowly, John started to lean forward. Right before their lips made contact, Sherlock pulled back. "Don't," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."

John laughed against his mouth. "And that's a bad thing?"

"It is when I didn't give you that ring."

The look on John's face made it apparent he'd all but forgotten about his marriage. But then it smoothed away quickly, like he'd made a decision. "Sherlock," he said carefully, "How much do you remember about when you kissed me?"

"I remember pulling you towards me," Sherlock said, "And I remember making contact."

"Do you remember me kissing back?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated marginally. "N-no."

John smiled again, flashing his teeth. "We've been dancing around each other since we met. And that was completely my fault. I was the one who was so stubbornly 'not gay' that I couldn't even see what was right in front of me: we may not have exchanged rings, but with how much time we spent in one another's company, the way we lived our lives to specifically inhabit one another, the casual grace with which we both eventually were able to use the mirror and go about our morning routines while the other was in the shower, we've pretty much been married since the day we met. I mean I shot a man for you within twenty four hours of knowing you and then you asked me to move in with you. We're the most unconventional couple I've ever heard of but we've been a couple this whole time, and it took me until you kissing me to get over myself and realize it. I don't think all of those times I called myself straight and had sex with women are suddenly void, and I still don't feel gay, but that doesn't mean I can't be in love with you, you absolute madman. So for once in your life _actually_ be the selfish bastard everyone in the world takes you for and _kiss me._ We'll work out the logistics later. Just do this for me, okay?"

"If I do this I'm not sure I'll be letting you walk out that door again," Sherlock mumbled honestly, leaning forward half an inch.

John took fistfuls of the taller man's nightshirt. "Lucky for you I am in no condition to drive again."

He closed the distance between their lips at long last, and, for the first time, actually felt the speed of Sherlock's thought processes: tensing in alarm, processing John's words for sincerity, then complete surrender as he melted in to the doctor's lips. Wrapping one arm around John's stockier frame, Sherlock pulled himself tight against John, leaving nothing between them. John, in response, moved one of his hands to frame Sherlock's face and the other to his shoulder for balance. He could feel the detective's breaths ghosting against his skin, becoming more and more shallow as the kiss transitioned from chaste and innocent to passionate.

John tentatively licked at Sherlock's bottom lip, a silent request for more. The tension in Sherlock's shoulder blades betrayed his uncertainty. John just waited, not about to force anything on his friend. After a few more slides of lips against lips, Sherlock opened his mouth a little wider, granting John access. After a moment's pause, John licked his way into Sherlock's mouth, tasting and touching and feeling intently. He felt the detective's breath catch as he fumbled to match John's tempo. The shorter man stroked one of Sherlock's cheekbones in assurance; I _t's alright,_ he thought, _it's all fine. Just let me lead for once_. Sherlock relaxed into the touch, and let his mouth be explored by John's probing tongue, opting to observe and learn rather than keep up. The turn of tables must have been overwhelming for the detective, normally superior in knowledge and ability to everyone else, but not entirely unpleasant, if the little sounds slipping past his lips every time they broke to reseal told John anything. He couldn't keep a sheepish grin from tugging at his own lips as he snogged the detective senseless.

A slight burn in his chest told John that at some point, he had forgotten to breathe. He broke away to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's. The detective panted with him, his face flushed and pupils blown wide. When John glanced up at him, the taller man's eyes were flicking left and right, unfocused, as if reading text that John could not see.

"Alright?" John asked, straightening his back a little. Sherlock moved with him, still largely bent over himself, but he still did not focus. "Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Compiling," Sherlock responded after a beat.

"What sort of relevant data could you honestly have received from a kiss?"

"You prefer to be the dominant partner in a new relationship while you're still finding your footing with the person but the more comfortable you get with them the more submissive you become. Your trust issues stem back to your childhood, they are not simply a product of war, and this plays a role in your need to be in control until you can trust your partner not to betray you."

Grinning, John took his shoulders and guided him down to lay on his back, settling beside him. "I think you've given me enough information I didn't know about myself for one week."

"It was a subconscious awareness."

"Doesn't count."

"Your first girlfriend was a woman you met at university."

"Compile silently. I'm trying to sleep." He sighed contentedly and settled further into his pillow, smiling at the scent of Sherlock surrounding him on all sides. It was a subtle scent, one that he had learned to associate with both danger and security over the years.

He felt the detective hum from above him. "It's just occurring to me that you were likely asleep when I texted you."

"Good deduction, that."

"John?" The soldier hummed in attention. "This is all…"

"New to you?" John looked up and smiled at him. "I deduced as much."

"I was going to say it's all a bit 'not good.' What are you going to tell Mary? And don't say you're not going to. That woman is unusually perceptive when it comes to lies."

John's smile faltered. "I wasn't planning on lying. I just… Need to work it all out first, y'know? None of this was particularly expected." He waited until Sherlock met his gaze. "But not at all unwanted. We'll figure it out, Sherlock. We always do."

 _"I_ always do. I always have a plan. I never planned for this."

Taking his hand, John brought Sherlock's knuckles to his lips. He felt the detective shudder. "I guess you're just going to have to work with me then. Think you can manage letting me help with the plan for once?"

Sherlock's hand broke free of John's grip to rest on his cheek. "I do trust you, John," he said seriously, "I've always trusted you. In the past the best way to guarantee your safety was to know and control all of the variables, and that often required keeping you in the dark. It had nothing to do with mistrust." His eyes narrowed marginally, a playful look suddenly marking his features. "And I quickly deciphered you rather preferred it that way."

Returning Sherlock's playful look, he covered the hand on his face with his own. "Only you could know someone better than they know themselves. I trust you too, Sherlock. God knows why, but I do. We'll figure this out. But for now, I'm well knackered. So let's sleep on it, yeah?"

"You know I've no intentions of sleeping."

John snorted as he lay down again. "Meditate, go to your mind palace, whatever you call those trances you put yourself in instead of sleeping."

Sherlock inched closer to John as he settled again, eyes sweeping over his features. "You have an oral fixation."

"I thought I told you to keep your observations to yourself."

"I've always found that difficult to do around you. Your praises are rather addicting."

"I could smack you for it from now on."

"I didn't detect any suggestions of enjoying pain play in your kisses."

John giggled. "Don't make me throttle you again." His sleepy voice dripped with affection.

Sherlock smiled. "You also harbor strong affections for me."

John blinked up at him. "Yes," he said confidently. He smiled fondly as Sherlock's cheeks colored at the affirmation, then let his eyes flutter closed again, quickly falling asleep.

"I as well… for you… I mean that they are… That I do…"

John cut him off with a quick peck to the detective's lips. Were he not so tired he would have beamed at being the only person capable of making Sherlock Holmes trip over his words with affection. "I know."

Sherlock watched him drift to sleep, and watched him long after, as the angle of light pouring in from the only window changed, causing new shadows to fall over John's peaceful features, giving him new angles of light to analyze and decide which were his favorites. Always too concerned to allow himself to indulge in such sentiments, now he did so gladly, happy to have John as a willing subject. Despite all of the information he still had to pour over and sort away in John's room in his mind palace, he could not tear his thoughts away from one sentence, dancing around his cerebral cortex in glorious celebration: _John Watson loves me._

He had never smiled so genuinely in his life.

[xxx]


End file.
